All That Could Be Done
by NotMarge
Summary: Kit Walker did it because he could, because he chose to. He and his special little children brought back a lost, forgotten soul from the brink of the bottomless void. And they asked nothing at all in return. Based on Kit's recollection from Asylum episode 13 'Madness Stops'.


I do not own American Horror Story: Asylum.

And that's a good thing.

All That Could Be Done

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><p>The shrunken old woman on the bed lay dying.<p>

And Kit Walker could not stop it.

He had done all he could do.

And now there was no more to be done.

But stay beside her.

And wait.

And remember.

Even after he'd gained his freedom, he had found himself revisiting Briarcliff Manor over and over again.

Though he had tried hard not to, tried his best to move on.

First in daydreams and sudden flashbacks in deep shadow and broad daylight.

Then later, the frightening daytime visions finally relegated themselves to suffocating nightmares in the still, quiet, dark hours of the long night.

Later as a family visitor, after his lovely, gentle Alma had so unexpectedly butchered his bright-eyed, smiling Grace.

After Alma died, he'd had no reason to go back.

Except sometimes it felt as though he had never truly left.

And he didn't _want_ to stay there anymore. He didn't _want_ to just go through the motions of daily life. He didn't _want_ to be a ghost of a father to his beautiful, special children. Julia and Thomas, they _needed_ him to be whole and sound. To be really alive, to be _there_.

So he had, with great trepidation and uncertainty, gone back once more. To the only remaining person left to carry on.

Jude.

She, the woman who had treated him so merciless during his wrongly appointed incarceration. That woman, so full of drive and passion and conviction. And coldness and brutality and ruthlessness.

The woman who had repeatedly caned him.

Strapped him down.

Locked him away in the dark.

Turned a deaf ear to his struggles, his pleadings.

It had been difficult at first, so very difficult.

To sit down across from her in that wretched hellhole, deteriorated even worse than when he was there, when Alma was there.

Look into her slack, ragged face and remember everything.

Because they two were the only ones left who remembered it all.

There was Lana of course as well who was still alive to remember.

But she had skewed things so badly for her own personal financial gain that her recollections hardly counted at all.

So really it was just the two of them now.

And he had to remember it all every single time he sat down to face her.

Every. Single. Time.

It had become an exercise of determination, of strength, of resilience to return every week and face her all over again.

So why had he done it?

The path to the answer was so complicated and yet the answer itself was so very simple.

Because it was something he could _do_.

He couldn't fix all the wrongs that had been done. To him. To her. To Grace. To Alma. To Lana. To any of them.

But he could do _something_.

For her, Jude. For himself. For his children.

He could forgive.

And reach out.

And so he did.

Once or twice a week, week after week.

First he'd hug and kiss his children. Giving them the father they needed and deserved. Drawing strength from them to go out and face her all over again. Give one final backward smile at their little round, sweet faces as they stood next to the babysitter and watch him go.

Then he would reassure himself over and over that he was doing the right thing, that it was going to help him, help her.

He stare up at that bleak, forbidding stone structure as he sat in his battered old truck, gathering his courage.

Sign in to that cold, lonely, miserable place, find his way to common room.

And sit down across from her.

Maybe beside her.

Ignore the screaming, the crying, the horrible smells. The cloying air that tasted foul in his nose and on his tongue.

Ignore the memories that clawed at the thin flesh encasing his skull and the tender nerves behind his eyes and squeezed his heart to almost to death in his constricting chest.

And shut it all out and focus on her.

She hadn't spoken, not at first. Barely looked at him, barely noticed him, so withdrawn and broken was she.

But he'd known she was in there somewhere.

And so he had looked, searched for the living person buried deep inside the brittle, decaying outward shell of forgotten flesh.

And finally, _finally_, he had found her.

Just a little.

The checkers helped. Simple human touch and acceptance, his hand moving hers over the checker pieces, one arm gently around her shoulders. Smiling at her. Talking to her about anything, everything. Anything but those grey, blank walls of her prison.

When she would finally raise her gaze to meet his, he could see a sliver of her soul, her essence peeking out at him.

It was hopeless, despondent.

Regretful.

Fractured.

But there.

Just a sliver.

As much as she could still think, she was sad for what she had done to him when he was at her mercy, that unrelenting, uncompromising, iron mercy.

The words couldn't struggle past her lips. Past the damaged brain tissues blasted by electric shock therapy. Past the pills they shoveled into her. Past the grey husk of her outward being.

But her eyes spoke volumes. Behind the dead, vapid stare, he'd almost been able to see her rusty cogs and wheels turning, trying to figure him out.

Suspicion. There had to be some darker reason he was there. Gloating over their reversed roles? A personal affirmation of her continued suffering and misery?

Morbid curiosity. Why was he there? Why was he showing her kindness and compassion when she had given him not one ounce, not one drop in all the time she held control over his very next breath.

Regret and shame slowly rising to the surface, like a yellow, ill cream. That she had made him suffer so, him innocent of all the crimes laid at his feet.

Gratitude. For him and his attentive presence and patience and acceptance that she did not, had not, could not ever, deserve.

Joined tentatively by amusement and enjoyment. When she sent forth those small knowing smiles at his little intentional challenges to her, whether it be in a sly checker move or a simple joke presented for her to cling her awakening consciousness to.

Every time he reached out to her, her soul flickered back just a little more.

And he felt he was on the right path.

He would forgive. He must forgive.

And the more he forgave, the better he seemed to feel. The more he forgave and saw her respond with a glimmer from deep within, the more he _wanted_ to forgive.

And she, the broken down, destroyed old woman who had once sought to destroy _him_, started to come back it seemed.

A little at a time.

And so he had made the decision after many days of careful consideration, to take her out of that forgotten, damned place. And bring her into his home.

Like one of the plants growing on his land, he gave her all the air and sunlight and life she had been so grievously denied for so many dark, suffocating years.

And as one human being to another, he gave her acceptance.

It hadn't been easy of course.

There had been setbacks, troubles, worrisome events.

But he'd had faith.

And that faith had moved mountains.

It had given the empty shell of a woman back some semblance of life, of happiness, of peace.

He'd consistently treated her with all the gentleness, kindness, and patience that she'd so stalwartly denied him.

He gave it freely.

Over and over again.

First through the long days and nights of medication detox.

When she found herself floundering in confused hallucinations, in violent sicknesses, in bouts of lethargy so bad she lay as though one dead, he was there.

And her eyes. Those striated brown eyes. They always knew that he was there. Even when she didn't know herself.

And when she began to calm, to rest, to heal, he'd sent in his children.

With carrot juice and flowers.

And innocence and love.

Just for her.

They'd taken to it easily, his beautiful children.

They had such gentle, tender souls.

He had thought surely they would be the light she needed to find her way back from the land of the living dead.

And they had.

And she did.

Little bits at a time.

She'd seemed to revel the simple delight of little Julia brushing her hair, working gently, patiently through the tangles with a brush and her small child's fingers. Of stacking blocks with Thomas and breaking them down all over again to build them back up.

The brash, coarse, violent woman was gone away.

A meek, timid woman subsisted in her place.

For a while.

'Til time slipped sideways for her and her past became her present, rending her as vile and harsh as when he'd first been brought to her doorstep. The old, hard as nails, spare the rod and spoil the child woman returned, brandishing brooms and flyswatters and hairbrushes and switches.

As he shouted her name and put himself between her and the frightened children, he'd worried that all might be lost.

Because the craziness and hate had returned. With a spiteful, ruthless vengeance.

And whatever else he witnessed happen in his life, he would not allow his cherished children to be harmed, to be hurt, to be violated in any way.

His dear sweet, precious children.

He'd begun to send them out away until he could calm her somehow. But they'd look at each other and then at her.

And taken the opportunity upon themselves to overcome a great darkness within her and stop her madness.

They had taken her gnarled, bony, trembling hands.

And led her gently, slowly away.

Alone, the three of them across the quiet, misty, green field. And into the woods beyond.

And whatever had happened, whatever they had done, she had come back different.

All her rage and insanity gone.

All her demons vanquished.

He didn't know what they had done and he figured he never would.

But she'd returned more lucid than he'd ever seen her since her imprisonment in Briarcliff.

And calm and kind and gentle once more. This time to stay.

Nothing short of a miracle as far as he was concerned.

And so they evolved into a family together.

As if they had always been so.

Laughing. Talking. Dancing.

Full of happiness and love.

He'd never before seen her laugh in pure, unadulterated delight. Smile in genuine, clean joy.

The light in her eyes shone out to the world, to him.

And most of all to the children.

His special children.

A grandmother, an aunt to the children. And him.

Teaching the boy to sew so he would not depend on and take for granted a woman. Teaching the girl to look beyond dolls and pretties to be strong and independent.

Living, those six months, in peace and happiness and family love.

All the things he'd so hoped for.

For himself. For his children. For her.

She'd even regained a little of her fire.

But it was no longer a burning, searing fire.

But a warming one, full of positive energy and gentle outreach.

Those hands, once so harsh and rigid and cruel, now reached out with tenderness and gentleness and affection.

And he'd known finally and completely that he'd made the right decision.

And he'd been grateful. So very grateful.

For his freedom. For his family. For his life.

And hers.

When the nosebleeds started and she was diagnosed with terminal cancer, a quiet voice inside him told him it was a part of life. The part of life that inevitably came to them all at the appointed time.

It told him that it would hurt.

Her. And him.

Very much.

And that when it was all over, she would have peace.

And he would know absolutely that he had done all the good he could for her.

It had taken awhile. Because she was stronger and had the love of her newfound family to buoy her up.

She had good, strong days where she soaked up the sun and all the life and love she could.

She had bad, weak days where she lay listless upon her bed.

And could only just manage to wrap herself up in the blanket of comfort and warmth of those little children who stayed by her side so loyally.

But nevertheless, now, after months of prayers and hopes, the woman on the bed lay dying.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The only thing left that he could do was stay close to her for support.

And so he did.

As did his children.

She poured out herself out to them, her renewed, healed heart of love. That heart that they had given so freely to her when she hadn't deserved it and couldn't find it for herself.

And when she had done all she could and loved them all she could, she sent those little precious, sweet children out into the bright, warm day. To soak up the sunshine and light.

And life.

And turned her last bits of strength to him.

The man whom she had once spent so much time and effort to destroy.

She looked upon him.

And smiled, wiping away her last tears.

And amid the few flippant things she said with her words, she said so, so much more deeper, sincere things with her eyes.

_Thank you._

_I'm sorry._

_I'm grateful. _

_I love you._

And said then that someone had come for her.

He looked and saw no one.

Felt no one.

But she had.

And she didn't seem afraid. She seemed content and at peace and ready.

With a small, welcoming smile on her face.

He didn't clearly understand, not in any cognizant way he could ever explain.

Though he might have felt a shift, a sense of something, way down deep in his soul. If he listened carefully enough.

That she was not alone, that she was joined by one far stronger, more powerful than him. Who had come for her, to relieve her of her physical burden.

He stayed all the same.

He didn't leave her alone.

And then, so quietly, without a whisper to betray her passing from this world, she closed her eyes.

And died.

He stayed there a while longer, remembering it all over again.

Forgiving all over again.

And letting go.

Then he went out with his good, precious children and buried her on the family land, in the ground near his dark beauty Alma and bright eyed pixie Grace.

Thomas and Julia placed little white flowers on her grave and he spoke a few words about their last months of happy togetherness.

And reassured them that she was at peace and life was for the living.

They all cried a little and hugged one another.

And then, holding the hands of his beautiful, precious children, he led them home.

Or they led him.

When they reached the threshold of their door, he looked back out across the still, waiting world.

And knew he'd done the right thing. And done it as well as he could.

And he was glad.

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><p><strong>Perhaps one of the most beautiful and powerful things I've ever seen on this show. It made me almost cry.<strong>

**So here it is. **

**Do with it what you will. **

**Thanks to Marlene for leaving a lovely review. I'm glad I did justice to the characters and the moment. :D**

**Thanks as well to nacknack667 for adding your support to this introspective. :)**

**Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.**


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